Without You, There Can Be No Me
by Lyn Harkeran
Summary: When a young woman almost commits suicide, Sherlock stops her. From there, emotions and heartfelt sentiments insue. Nothing will ever be the same again. OC/Sherlock drabble series. Angst, hurt and comfort, fluff, and romance.
1. Somebody Loves You

**A/N:** (F/N) - First Name (h/l) - hair length (h/c) - hair color (L/N) - Last Name (e/c) - eye color

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 **~Somebody Loves You~**

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It was cold. Bitterly frozen winds wiped about the streets of London, accurately marking the time of year as the dead of winter. And yet, it wasn't because of the January weather that you felt cold. But rather what was currently happening to you on the inside.

Too much pain, too much confusion. . . Too much _life_.

You stood silently on the edge of a large bridge- which one it was you couldn't say- and felt the wind rapidly gush through your (h/l) hair. You had come here mainly to think- as you usually did when things in your life got rough- but tonight was different than usual. Because tonight, you were tired of fighting.

"Long way to fall," a deep voice assessed from several feet behind you. "An instant recipe for death, for someone of your respectable body mass."

Your head immediately snapped up at the well-known voice, and if you hadn't had good footing on the iron grating where you were standing, you would have easily plummeted to the traffic below with the shock.

You knew who the voice belonged to without looking, so you didn't turn around as you answered. But you were shaken by the man's undeniable, larger than life presence.

"I- . . . I suppose so."

The voice was surprisingly calm in reply. "Are you going to jump?"

Finally, you turned your head to look at the detective who was now only a foot or so away, and the sight made you exhale a shaky breath. Dark curly hair, sharp cheek bones, lovely coat with the collar turned up, and piercing iceberg eyes. He could have passed for an angel . . . or a demon simply posing as one.

A single tear traced its way down your face as you met the familiar gaze of Sherlock Holmes'- the current flat mate of one of your oldest friends- and shook your head. You had known the strange detective for almost two years now, and you still felt out of place around him.

"I don't know. . ." you finally stuttered anxiously. "I-I honestly don't know-"

"Then why stand on the ledge?" He immediately wanted to know. "Why not go do something productive while you decide?"

You laughed- a choked, mirthless sound- as you shifted on the grating where you stood, your (e/c) eyes misty and emotional.

"Not all of us can think so rationally, Sherlock."

The man was keenly watching you, and ever so slightly cocked his head to the side with an almost invisible smile.

"You're deflecting."

You were silent for several long moments- knowing that he was quite correct- before you returned his smile with a broken version of your own. Then- losing all your normally shy restraints- your lips formed a question that had been eating at the back of your mind since you had first met the man standing behind you. If you were going to leave this world behind, you might as well have the answer.

"Do you ever get tired of seeing what you see?"

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

You fought your numb brain for another explanation and finally fumbled through the words.

"You always observe so much, Sherlock. You _know_ things that others will never know or even imagine, due to your foresight and talented brain. . . You can pinpoint stuff before it's happened. There are no surprises for you. . . No true mysteries. And yet, somehow you're still here."

The detective nodded once- biding for you to continue to the actual question- acknowledging your words without speaking any of his own.

"How-. . ." you started, and as several more tears leaked from your eyes, you had to begin again. "D-Do you ever wish you didn't see so much? That you could erase your mind and start fresh? . . . A clean slate for all the horrible things you've seen or experienced . . . Do you ever wish you were _normal_?"

Sherlock's light blue eyes were locked onto your face, and you felt as though your very soul was being read. Nothing escaped those astute eyes. And though this fact usually disconcerted you, you now returned the intensity full force. You wanted an answer. . . You _needed_ to hear him admit it- though you weren't sure what it was he'd be admitting. Just so long as he said _something._

Slowly, the detective moved to stand on the grate beside you, though he made no move to forcefully pull you away from the edge. And as his shoulder came to rest nearly close enough to bump yours, he spoke. His tone was soft and as rich and deep as exotic chocolate, though he only said one word.

"No."

You sighed in alleviation and hung your head; your shoulders slumped and more tears ran from your eyes, though a sincere smile crept to your lips.

"I'm _glad_ , Sherlock . . . I'm relieved that your gift doesn't drive you insane."

From the way his eyes were once more searching you as if you were a puzzle piece; you could tell that he was concerned. Which was strange . . . You'd never seen Sherlock Holmes worried about anything . . . you'd never thought that would be something he'd _let_ you see. And yet . . . now he _did_.

"(F/n)-" he began, but you quickly interrupted him- suddenly wanting him to understand as you felt a wave of panic flood over you. You had to explain. You needed to get it out.

"I wish that my gift was like yours, Sherlock. I really do." You had been on the verge of a mental breakdown all day, and now it was finally overwhelming you. Causing your voice to rise in tone and pitch until it was a cry. "Cause my special talent doesn't help solve cases or make me smarter. Mine just makes my life harder than it already would be normally. And I'm left trying to pick up the pieces, time and time again. Mourning for people I hardly even know."

You took a shuddering breath, and after a moment Sherlock broke the silence.

"Empathy."

The one defining word spoken from the man who you secretly admired, felt like a tidal wave as you stared off into the distance. Once again, Sherlock Holmes was one step ahead, but you had to wonder if he truly saw it all.

The winter wind was blowing harder now, and you had to speak loud over the storm, anxiously trying to let your pent up emotions out in your words.

"I'm always the one holding the bag!" You cried out wistfully. "The one who gets forgotten or is left behind! Because I'm always the person who lends a shoulder to cry on, or makes the sacrifice! And I'm _sick_ of it!

"And when I need help, or don't know what to do, _no ones_ ' there for me! No one gives a damn, and in the end I'm on my _own_!"

You were truly sobbing now, though the wind hid most of the unflattering noises you were making. But at this point you didn't care, because you were past such petty thoughts. You were in the moment with your emotions and the anger and hurt you were feeling, and nothing else mattered. And by this time your rant had reached its climatic point.

"I don't matter! I could just fall off this damn bridge right now, and it wouldn't make the slightest difference!"

And that was when you felt the firm hand wrap around your wrist. Your unfocused gaze snapped back to your companion, and you instantly cringed. From the look he was giving you, you'd thought you'd been slapped. Sherlock's already vibrant eyes were icy infernos as his long fingers held you in place.

"What about John and the rest of your family? Are you really so selfish as to believe no one would care?"

"I'm not close with my family," you contradicted sadly. "And John. . . well he has you now. . . He'd-He'd manage. Because in the end it _wouldn't_ _matter,_ Sherlock. I don't contribute anything special to anyone. I'm a waste of space."

"You are empathetic of those around you -unquestionably so- to perhaps the length where it would be considered unwise," Sherlock stated, adamantly. "But _someone_ would miss you."

You locked eyes with the world's greatest detective and fought to see the truth, and you gasped as it stared you right back in the face. Sherlock's expression had softened- more so than you had ever seen- and a small smile drew his lips up at the corners. His blue eyes saying things his mouth never could or would.

" _Somebody_ loves you, (F/n). And they always will."

Sherlock gave your wrist another squeeze, his eyes roaming over your face slowly, before he let go altogether. Then, without another word, the great detective turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you all alone once more.

He had wanted you to reconsider your life, though in the end he had left the final decision up to you.

The winter wind ripped past your sedentary form, screeching for you to jump to the fatal embrace of death. But you merely stood, facing the skyline of the great city of London with tears freezing to your face.

In that moment, as Sherlock had spoken his final words to you, it had seemed like an open statement. But it had been so much more. . . It had been an admission . . . a declaration of feelings that were foreign and most likely suppressed.

The simple words had been a love letter that you would never forget.

Slowly, as the wind cackled maniacally at your back, you moved away from the edge of the bridge, and began the long walk back to 221B Baker Street. Praying that perhaps someday the pain would cease to exist, and that you one day, might have the courage to act upon your own feelings.

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 _ **A/N:**_ I originally posted this over on deviantart and decided to post it here as well. The format of the story is very different for me (personal reader insert sort of deal) but I am very pleased with how intimate the story feels because of it.

Having dealt with suicidal tendencies and thoughts in the past, I figured this story should be shared. Plus, we all love Sherly so why wouldn't I post? ;)

If you enjoyed the story please throw me a review. I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts. Thank you so much!

 ** _~Lyn_**


	2. Without You, There Can Be No Me

**(F/n) - First name**

 **~Without You, There Can Be No Me~**

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You were visibly shaking, as you slowly walked up the rickety old staircase of 221B Baker Street, and stood before the now dreaded apartment door. You lifted one of your hands to tentatively knock, but stopped before your knuckles met with the hard wooden surface.

You took several deep breaths as you felt your anxiety triple, and fought the overwhelming feelings that were now rising in your chest.

It had been a whole week since you'd nearly jumped off the bridge, and ever since then you'd been avoiding Baker Street and its residents. Not out of spite or anything like that . . . it was more out of embarrassment and the prospect of facing a certain detective who had seen you in such a moment of weakness.

If it had been anyone else, you wouldn't have cared about appearances. But it wasn't just anybody who had talked you out of falling to your death. . .

. . . It had been _Sherlock Holmes_.

What would he think of you now? He'd never been overly warm or welcoming to you- well, usually he deemed your actions amusing and entertaining. But having seen you in such an incredibly altering situation, might have changed things permanently. Would the great detective act the same? Or would he be different? That was the question.

You were walking into a battle to face an altogether horrifying foe: the _unknown._

The thought terrified you as you stood shaking on the doormat, and you would have liked nothing better than to run back down the stairs and take a taxi back to own your flat. If it wasn't for John's worried phone calls and messages over the last handful of days, you wouldn't have thought twice about retreating. But here you were, and here you'd stay. . . Well at least, until you'd put John's worries to rest.

With a final wordless prayer to the cosmos, you lifted your shaking hand once more and knocked upon the paint-chipped door. You waited for several long moments, before you repeated the action . . . and then again.

No movement from inside, and no answer.

After a minute more of waiting you were about to turn away and forget about the whole thing, when you heard a voice call out from within.

 _"Enter."_

At the all too familiar voice, your fight or flight instincts kicked into overdrive, but slowly and resolutely, you reached for the knob and let yourself into the flat.

You entered with hesitant steps and forced yourself to close the door behind you before giving yourself the chance to observe your surroundings. You knew that it was a chicken-hearted thing to do, but at this point you were lucky to have set foot in 221B, let alone do it the _brave_ way.

As your (e/c) eyes grew accustomed to the somewhat dark main room, you noticed that the flat was a mess- as per usual. But you completely ignored the excess items littering the living space; for it was the figure that lounged on the far side of the room that captured your full attention, making your mouth hang open in a most unflattering way.

There, lying upon the couch, shrouded in what looked to be a white bed-sheet, amidst countless maps and documents, was Sherlock. His eyes were closed; and with his hands steepled thoughtfully under his chin, and his legs crossed at the ankles he was quite the sight. Though it was a most assured fact, that if the man hadn't crossed his legs in such a way, you most likely would have seen everything he had to _offer_.

You stood; gaping for several minutes before Sherlock spoke, startling you out of your somewhat treacherous mindset.

"Could you hand me my phone?"

"Ummm. . ." You glanced around the cluttered room. "Where is it?"

"Mantelpiece," was the simple reply, and you hesitantly made your way over to the fireplace. Once you had spotted it, you grabbed his phone and then moved to take it back to him.

Sherlock's eyes were still closed as you came to stand next to the couch, but before you could place it near him or say a word; his piercing light blue eyes snapped open to regard you.

He held out his hand expectantly, and you- fumbling slightly- placed the phone into it.

Both of you were silent as Sherlock typed out a brief text message and sent it to the unknown recipient. Then . . . he was staring at you again.

"John's not in," he said.

Apparently, he had already figured out why you had paid Baker Street a visit. Not overly surprising, when you thought about whom it was you were talking to.

You nodded. "Yeah, I figured as much."

You fell silent- not quite sure what else to say- but you shouldn't have worried. For Sherlock- after gazing at your face for several more seconds, let his eyes drift down to your shaky, pale hands, and instantly broke the silence.

"You shouldn't fear me, (F/n). I doubt such a ridiculous thing is considered healthy."

You froze, and your jaw clenched. "What? I'm not afraid of you, Sher-"

Sherlock closed his eyes once more, and sighed in annoyance, interrupting your argument.

"Don't deny it. You have too many things working against you: your hands, for starters."

His fast paced deductions made your stomach churn, but it was too late now. You'd opened the door, and he was in.

"They're shaking," he continued firmly. "Your face is pale which can be directly pinpointed to severe anxiety, and there's concealer under your eyes: hiding black circles due to lack of sleep. Also, your shirt is wrinkled from when you crinkled it with your hands. I'd say two minutes _before_ you knocked. A nervous gesture that you tend to do when you're worried about something personal such as friends, your love-life, etc. . . . And then, there's your shoes."

You internally screamed as he picked your appearance apart, but took it with a straight face. You had prepared for this- well as much as anyone could prepare to be analyzed by Sherlock Holmes- and you would stand your ground even if it killed you.

"What about my shoes," you asked cautiously.

Sherlock's lips quirked into a thin smile.

"They don't match."

You instantly looked down and felt a blush creep to your cheeks. He wasn't lying . . . you were wearing two different kinds of shoes: a sneaker and a house-slipper, one white and red, the other overly fuzzy and yellow. . . You groaned aloud in embarrassment, and would have been completely lost to your blunder if it wasn't for Sherlock's deep voice interrupting your thoughts. But it wasn't necessarily his voice that caught your attention, but rather the inquisitive note laced to it.

"You've never been skittish around me before. . . In fact, you've always been curious in my presence. What changed?"

You looked at him in disbelief. Was he being serious, or did he truly not know?

"I'm _not_ afraid of you, Sherlock," you argued sincerely. "I'm just ashamed, because you . . . saw me."

"I saw you?" He seemed incredulous.

"Yes, you saw me- last week. . . Like _that_. . ."

"Like what?"

His confusion and annoyance was obvious, and you felt your heart drop. He'd be the death of you, one way or another. . . consequences and feelings be damned.

"The _bridge_ , Sherlock," you clarified, after a moment of mental preparation. "I'm . . . I'm embarrassed that you had to be with me in one of my darker moments. . . I never wanted you to see me in such a sorry state of mind."

Sherlock was silent, but you knew he was paying close attention to you, from the way his blue eyes were focused.

So, you continued.

"Ever since John introduced me to you, I've wanted to earn your respect- a seemingly impossible task," you admitted as your eyes began to grow wet. "I doubted it would ever happen, but I wanted it all the same. . . And now . . . And now I know that I'll never be able to."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he probed; voice gentle but invasive all the same.

"What evidence do you have that suggests such a claim?"

Now it was your turn to be incredulous. Your eyebrow rose and a loud, unladylike snort escaped you. "I don't need evidence when I already know something to be true, Sherlock."

Sherlock immediately snorted right back at you, though you noted that his sounded dignified and somehow. . . _seductive. . ._ \- unlike yours had.

"Why do people always suit facts to theories, instead of theories to facts?" The detective wanted to know. "Placing belief in something without the proper proof is a deceptive practice, (F/n); one that often leads to more headache than necessary."

You felt wistfulness rise in your chest as you shook your head violently. You knew that you should probably just keep your mouth shut and walk away. But as you once more were trapped by Sherlock's cold hard logic you couldn't help but lash out.

"Screw the facts!" You cried out, making the detective cock his head to the side. "You don't respect _anyone_! . . . Well, I _think_ you respect John and perhaps your brother Mycroft- in an abstract, unorthodox sort of way- but it's not something you give easily, if at all!"

You were crying now, but nothing could stop the torrent of emotion.

"I knew the chances of you respecting me were slim in the beginning, because I'm not smart or particularly special. I'm not a doctor like John, or a deduction playmate to you like your brother. I'm simple! I enjoy _simple_ things, Sherlock! Like seeing people smile and finding reasons to laugh when I've been dealt a hard hand by life. . ."

You hung your head sorrowfully as you finished, "My chances were already bad, but now I'm positive I'll never impress you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Tell me _why_ ," Sherlock hissed impatiently, making you jump.

The detective's eyes were bright and his fingers were flexing restlessly as he swung his feet to land on the carpeted floor- moving into a bold sitting position. The white bed-sheet fitting his form like a toga of doom, moving silently with him to gracefully rest once more in an almost regal position. It was quite strange, utterly terrifying, and horrifically attractive.

" _Facts,_ (F/n), for pity sake! TELL ME _FACTS!"_ He snarled viciously, his lips drawing up over his teeth like a wolf readying itself to bite. _"_ Stop chomping your gums like a meaningless impersonator, and give me something to work with! TELL. ME. _**WHY**!_ _"_

As he barked at you, your dam broke and you erupted in your full despair and anger. A volcano of pent up emotions boiling over, just as they had on the bridge . . . But somehow it was stronger this time. . . Somehow it felt. . . _better_.

"I NEARLY KILLED MYSELF, YOU INCONSIDERATE MORON! WHAT BETTER REASON DO YOU NEED!?" You yelled back at him ferociously, your voice coming out far too loud in the secluded living room. "You respect life- you constantly try to save it by solving mysteries and murder cases- whether you like that part of your job or not! And I almost _threw_ mine _AWAY!_ "

You moved the palms of your hands up to cover your eyes, ashamed as the truth of the matter reached the surface.

"I know you'll never respect me because you had to _help_ me, Sherlock . . . I'm nothing more than another client on a list . . . and you didn't even get paid."

"You were never a client, (F/n)," Sherlock said calmly from where he sat on the couch, pulling his sheet more comfortably around his lithe form; his sudden, momentary outburst all but forgotten. "And you would have found a way to save yourself even if I hadn't been there."

"I don't believe that," you whispered, with a sorrowful shake of your head. "I'm not that strong. . . I never have been."

"It's not about strength," Sherlock stated easily. "You've always had the means and incentive to help yourself, (F/n). I merely pushed the needed information back where it belonged: before your weary, disheartened eyes."

You took at a shaky breath as his light blue eyes met your (e/c) ones, and felt your heart skip as he gave you the same smile he'd donned on the bridge when he'd told you that someone loved you. That same look of _affection._

"You never wanted to die, (F/n)." He spoke softly, as if to soothe you, and you choked silently, as the tears slid down your pale face. "You just wanted the pain to stop."

Your hands were shaking more violently now, than they had when you'd first entered the flat, but you accepted it. Where you had first dreaded Sherlock's deductions of your character upon entering 221B, you now welcomed it. You _basked_ in it.

"Y-Yes."

"You wanted to be free of your confines," Sherlock continued gently. "To enjoy life and all it has to offer. But you felt trapped, so you stood at the edge of a bridge to try to put some meaning back into your life."

"Yes," you said again, for it was all true. Every word was dead on the money, and you were grateful for it. "I wanted to feel something other than disappointment and isolation. I wanted to be _whole_."

Sherlock gazed at you for a whole minute before he slowly rose from his seat on the couch. As always, he towered over your smaller form, but you didn't feel intimidated. Not when his eyes- for once- looked so warm. Their usual iceberg blue was melting into a free-flowing ocean tide of intent cerulean; swirling around you and through you.

"You _are_ whole, (F/n)," he chided in a whisper. "And you proved that you loved your life, by not giving into a petty end. You saved _yourself_."

Deep down, as you stood so close to the strange detective, you knew that he was right. The thought made you feel tingly and happy- startling you. For you'd never felt anything like it in your entire life.

Hesitantly and with more than a touch of nervousness, you slowly raised your right hand up to rest on Sherlock's chiseled cheek, and graced him a grateful smile.

"I might have saved myself," you consented lovingly. "But the information you gave me, Sherlock Holmes, helped me to do so . . . Without _you_ , there would be no _me_."

Sherlock raised his own hand, and placed his palm against yours, firmly holding your hand to his face. Your eyes met with his stunning, all-seeing blue, and you felt your heart flip in your chest. The moment was beautiful and open, like final scene in a majestic play, and both you and the great detective delved deep into it.

Vibrant lights, colors, and sounds. Little details never seen before or after. And more endorphin's than you thought you could handle.

It was glorious!

Then after an unknown amount of time had passed- Sherlock, hand still holding yours, leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours as he whispered two words that made the dull ache in the back of your heart disappear completely. And though it was far from an eternal love declaration, you knew that for the man standing before you; it was the closest he could muster. And thus, it was enough.

" _I know_."

Then, Sherlock closed the distance between you, and softly placed his lips upon your own. Sealing the unspoken deal you both had just made, with the perfection equation. For without one, there could be no other, and because of this you were no longer lost.

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 _ **A/N:**_ Cheesy, romantic, and totally fluffy. Why wouldn't we? Hahah. At any rate, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. It's the meat and bones of the whole story because it's the love and moment I want this story to embody. Sherlock isn't a romantic, but I wanted him to have a humane moment. Everyone needs to feel wanted and worthwhile, and sometimes it's impossible for us to see without someone telling us.

If you like the story please drop me a review! I'd love to hear your thoughts! ^^

 ** _~Lyn_**


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